


Seasonal Changes

by fresne



Category: Anthropomorfic - Fandom
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-06
Updated: 2011-03-10
Packaged: 2017-10-16 03:43:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/168053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fresne/pseuds/fresne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes winters grow unexpected warm. Sometimes summers dip into cold. Autumn rains between. This would be one explanation as to why.</p><p>Aka, porn I wrote while in line at Disneyland.... like you do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. By Winter's Garden

**Author's Note:**

> The following inspiration for this work and inspiration for my dialogue, where I am not directly quoting, because apt quotes are cool:
> 
> Can't say as I remember quoting, but if I did and I haven't attributed, let me know and I'll add it.

Bucket the raindrops on her roof. Until they stopped.

Stopped falling on her roof.

This would not do.

Winter had come out into her garden, into her rain pavilion of looping wires and dripping beads to work on new fractals for snowflakes. The math was black and it was white. Wet. Slick. Inked brush and the clatter of the ink disk as rain fell.

Had fallen.

The sun came out and shown vigorous heat onto (into) the dark sleeping earth. Steamed.

This would not do. At all.

Winter arched an eyebrow (just one - both would be deadly) and contemplated the gravel over the tops of her thick iron frame glasses. They were trifocals and changed shapes with her mood. Her apple tree had leaves on it. Poppies peaked from the dark earth. The rain drops burned away and left silence.

Into which she heard a low husky laugh. The leaves of her wakeful trees curled yellow and gold and that was more like it. On the other side of the high grey stone wall, voices whispered. A soft gasp, "Yes."

Winter smiled cooly. All her smiles were cool. She went to the stone wall. Grape vines battled roses for waterfall furl down her stone. Winter glared at the vines. She liked bare. She pushed through and touched the stone with her fingertips. It pulsed with the fierce heat of long baked days, as on the other side of the wall of Winter's garden, she heard Summer say, "Here." and Autumn reply, "Yeah." Fabric rustled like writhing vines around Winter's wrist. She flicked them away. Brushed her finger tips against her lips.

Winter got her chair. She was not young. She wouldn't stand for this.

During her absence, Summer had proceeded into Autumn. Wet smacks. The grape vines on the wall, trembled as on the other side, Autumn held them tight. Blushed red. Burned yellow and orange. Brown at Winter's touch on her side of the wall. First a brush of her hand to rattle away the leaves. Dry the vines into black chords. Ropes waiting. Binding her wall. Swept her hand in lazy circles. Frost followed in her lines.

When she reached the light grey stone at shoulder height, Winter heard a sharp gasp on the other side of the wall. Her wall. Her stones. Her garden.

Winter smiled coldly. All her smiles were cold. She leaned forward. Kissed the spot that she'd found.

Ice spread from where her lips met stone. Was rewarded by a sharp cry of, "Oh." Winter pulled back and blew biting gales on the stone. A northern wind steady moaned.

Autumn sobbed, "Please." Soft rain fell. A gentle patter on the rain pavilion in the garden of Winter. On Winter. She turned up her face. Closed her eyes and listened to the soft rain on her wires and beads and brush and waiting trees. Felt it fall on her face. Felt those sobbed tears.

Outside of Winter's garden, past and into Autumn, Summer groaned. Lightening heat cracked the sky and pounded thunder. Faster and thunder. Rain. Teardrop cries. Steady beats and drips and slicks pooled on the wet dark earth. It all sank in. Greedy for more.

Winter kept her eyes closed. Kept her face upturned. Brushed her fingers back and forth across the icy hot stone. Brushed her inky fingers along the sweet spot cleft in the mortar as she wrung colder and colder raindrops from the skies. Sharper gasps. Groaned the wind. Harder and higher and lower lightening. Cries like migrating birds. A steady sob of, "Please, please, please."

Winter leaned forward for another kiss. Licked a flurry across the stone.

The sky above broke and drenched the earth in a flood. Until rain was all Winter could hear.

The grey fabric of her dress clung to her skin. She brushed a hand across herself as the rain softened a rainbow for their sins and the sun peaked out. Water beaded on her lenses. Refracted her garden. Froze under her steady breathes.

Outside. On the other side of the wall. Autumn laughed. She said, "I love it when the two of you are like this." Winter stood up. She plucked a late harvest apple from her tree. The skin soft and weathered between her lips. Felt Summer's laugh in the sweet taste as she swallowed. The only way they ever touched.

Winter smiled warmly. Because maybe sometimes her smiles were warm. As Summer's laugh could be cold. Intemperate. She went inside to put on a kettle for tea and biscuits and new sheets of snow for her bed. Autumn was sure to visit soon and she wanted to be ready.


	2. Ink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spring runs from Winter's garden. Winter follows with poetry and snow.

Spring trembled inside the high grey walls of her garden. Trembled. Raged. Spring smashed through the wall (it was a door, but still he smashed through it.) Raged a tempest. Nothing to hers.

Still. A tempest. Showers to bring flowers. He hailed. Pelted the earth with his feet.

He ran into the world. Bare feet. Pelted. Bright red blood on the old snow. Ripped off his clothes in tatters. Shattered himself. Stood naked and screamed at the bare arms of trees.

Winter laughed. “I love a good rage.” She held up her brush already wet with ink. “Put your arms in front of your eyes.”

He swallowed. He put his arms in front of his eyes. Leaned back and felt like a new moon. Curved back and the breeze clattered at the trees. He could feel his hair brush against his bare back. Soft. Flinched at the first cold flick of her brush. She slapped his side. Somewhere, far away, an iced river creaked. It wasn't yet the needle. Not yet.

“I didn’t say you could move.” She smelled like death. Dead things and waiting. Stillness and he stood still. She painted curls and cues and poetry on his ribs. The trees creaked in the wind of his sighs. She didn’t tell him to stop breathing. She made poetry his standing ribs and arching spine with a brush of arctic hare. He breathed in and out. He opened his mouth and felt the soft snow fall into him.

Winter hummed. Circled him. Creaked. She smelled like rot and decay. Wire and copper. Bitter roots and ice.

She said, “You can lower your arms now.” He did. Slow. Ink on his arms and his legs and neck. All over poetry. She smiled at him. Old yellow teeth and wiry silver hair. She was all over poetry. Her own long inked marks of black brush work. She kissed him the grave and pushed him back. The trees creaked in the wind. Snow fell slowly. Wide fat flakes onto them. Cold and wet at his back. He lay on the snow. In the snow that covered him, swallowed him, until he gave in and closed his eyes. Lay still as the grave. Death. Winter. Sleep.

Woke alone and covered in snowdrops. Poppies where his feet had bloody gone. He stretched. Rubbed at the poetry of himself and put on new green leaf clothes. Spun on one foot and laughed. Ran through a meadow and scattered sudden leaves.

He’d probably be ennui tomorrow. For now, he ran to Summer’s house. He felt hungry and he wanted barbecue.

**Author's Note:**

> If after reading my fiction here, you would like to read more about me and my writing check out my profile.


End file.
